


The Haunting of Mr M____

by Atlanta Lea (Clevertoad)



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:16:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clevertoad/pseuds/Atlanta%20Lea
Summary: A fond homage to Ian M., master of the bleedin' adjective





	The Haunting of Mr M____

**Author's Note:**

> 1986: Written for Ian Marter, with love from the President of the Unofficial Harry Sullivan Fan Club.

It was an excessively dark and morbidly stormy night. As the barman wiped up an unpleasantly suggestive stain from the grimy surface of the bar, he glanced around at the semi-comatose customers huddled at the tables which bestrewed this gloomily cheerless room. There were plenty of tables, but not bloody many customers. He was pleased, therefore, when the door opened to admit another prospect.

The new customer slunk in, sliding the door almost shut behind himself as he peered back out at the encroaching fog. He sidled up to the bar, casting furtive glances about himself. "Heineken, " he croaked. "A double." Now that he was in the (barely adequate) light, it could be seen that his face was that of a haunted man, pale and haggard. Deep lines were carved from nose to prominent chin; permanently knitted brows overhung blue eyes blurred and bleary from innumerable sleepless nights. His hands twitched pitiably as he fumbled his wallet from his pocket and groped for the notes. When the drink came he gulped it in a swallow that barely paused for breath. "More," he gasped. "More."

This one's a nutter, thought the barkeeper amiably, and poured another beer. The second drink went the way of the first, with good effect. A calmer, slightly glazed look spread over the stranger's cragged features. He nursed his third beer, relaxing under the gentle, melancholy influence of hops carefully brewed.

But suddenly a noise like a moaning wind swept in at the door. The man's hair (mostly grey) stood on end. A clank, as though of metal rattling against metal, seemed to echo from the door. Gooseflesh sprang up on the man's arms and he clutched his beer glass desperately. Again the clanking noise echoed, scraping slowly across the floor like a man trying to drag a heavy chain. Clunk – slide – clunk – slide – clattercrashsplinterthud in a crashing cacophany!

 "Oh, crikey, I dropped my head," echoed a disembodied voice.

"Yeek!" screamed the stranger. "Not you again! Not here! I killed you, remember? You're dead, Harry Sullivan! Dead as Marley's doornail, buried forever!"

"I still don't see why," said the disembodied voice, somewhat hurt. "What did I do now?"

"You were haunting me!" the man shrieked. "All those cons, all those fans who kept expecting me to trip over my own feet! I got to the point where I _was_ tripping over them just because people expected me to."

(The landlord, although still bemused by the unexpectedness of this otherworldly encounter, prudently moved the empty glasses well out of range.)

 "After ten years they expect me to remember all my bloody lines!" the stranger ranted to the thin air (no longer thin; in fact distinctly smoky, since it was only an hour to closing time). "They have videotape machines, every last one of them, and they know every single scene by heart. The questions they ask would stop a trivia historian in his tracks. They make buttons with every lousy line I had to deliver emblazoned on them. There was even a fan club for you! "

"Yes, I know," said the ghost, somewhat smugly. "Rather sweet of them, I thought. I say, old chap, you don't suppose they'd have any grog about this place, do you?"

"No!"

"It's awfully thirsty work, all this clanking and moaning."

"Yes, and _must_ you always do it at three o'clock in the morning?"

"Union rules. It's supposed to be midnight, actually."

"How am I supposed to get any serious work done when you haven't let me sleep through a night in ages? I'm a nervous wre— What was that!?" as another clatter echoed eerily about the room.

"Dropped it again," came the voice from the vicinity of the floor. "Don't move your foot."

"If I had to go on that show, why couldn't it have been as Captain Yates?" the stranger demanded of the barkeeper, who shrugged, disclaiming responsibility. "No, it had to be that klutz. One lousy role, one lousy season, ten lousy years ago — and that's what people still remember."

"Nothing wrong with that, old thing."

"I may be old, Harry, but I am not a — Lord, you've got _me_ doing it now! I could never escape you. That's why I had to end the book with that car crash. There's no way you could have survived."

"Not any?"

"None."

"If I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, I _might_ have been thrown clear."

"You were wearing it. It's illegal not to, remember?"

"Well, just this once... I was in a bit of a hurry, you know."

"I wonder if Conan Doyle had this problem with the Reichenbach Falls," the harassed author muttered. "There are at least five of those wide-eyed fan writers who are busy writing stories to bring you back to life. Go haunt them."

"But they're not official. Doesn't do any good if it's not, for some reason. Don't know quite why, but there you are," said the ghost. "It doesn't have to be a whole book, you know, just a mention somewhere that I really did survive."

"If I do, will you leave me alone?" the visible member of the conversation demanded.

"Cross my heart," swore the ghost, gesturing a little too enthusiastically to demonstrate its sincerity. The half-full beer glass performed a less than graceful arc, splattering over the bar, the tap, and the author's lap. "Oops — sorry, old man. Didn't mean to knock over your beer. Here, let me get a towel or something..."

The author ran screaming onto the night. The overturned glass righted itself by no visible means, and the ghost, apologetic, said, "Er, sorry about that, old bean. He's a quiet sort usually. Must be one over the eight tonight. Here, let me pay for — oh, um, I can't exactly do that, can I? I mean, even when I was alive I wasn't real, you know."

"Really now, that's interesting," said the barkeeper, mentally totting up the cost of the cracked glass and the last Heineken and quite inured by this time to the sensation of conversing with an invisible something.

"I'd better go keep an eye on him," the voice said. "The state he's in he's likely to run into a car or some such and then I'd never get resurrected. Cheerio, all! I am most frightfully sorry about the beer..." The ghost backed out, still apologizing and only knocking over two tables and one slightly tiddly patron on the way.

The barkeeper poured himself a good strong drink and downed it in three gulps. On second thought he poured himself another. A customer shuffled up to the bar in search of a refill. "Here," said the publican. "This one's on Conan Doyle." The customer eyed the glass in astonishment for two full seconds before he grabbed it and scuttled back to the corner.

That had to be one for the books. 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Mr. M. spent the summer of '86 complaining at several conventions about how old he was, hence the crack out the grey hair. Not that one could tell, when he was sporting a buzzcut after shaving it all off to play in 'Waiting for Godot.' Definitely looked better with the curls.
> 
> The actor/author never got older -- we lost him that fall, on his 42nd birthday.  
> Sad and unintentional irony that the character outlived him.


End file.
